In theory, cycling on Cape Ann - with itsmiles of rocky beaches and its quaint villages - should be idyllic. In practice, it is all main roads, devoid of shade and dense with traffic, along a largely hypothetical coastline. The water views are obscured by developments and the sea is strangely scentless much of the time. Add to that the crater-sized potholes, the unyielding drivers, and the mosquitos immune to insect repellant - and frankly I don't find it so idyllic at all.
But stubbornly I persist: the same old 45 rolling miles, from Rockport to Ipswich and back. There is exactly one stretch of backroad along my route, and I anticipate it as one might anticipate a tart fruity filling in an otherwise bland pie.
There is only one stretch of backroad, but this stretch has a little of everything: climbing, quiet, overhanging trees, wooden bridges over saltwater marshes. And the part I look forward to most are the twists. The narrow road loops abruptly to the left, then to the right, then to the left again, then - who knows. It twists haphazardly - not so much a series of hairpins, as a mess of tangles.
As a young girl I once found a stray length of golden chain in my grandmother's garden.It was thin and delicate, the kind of chain meant to be worn with a pendant. But now it was dirty and torn and missing a clasp - not really of use to anyone.I remember standing there and spilling it back and forth from one hand to the other, fascinated by the curves and tangles it made each time it settled on my palm. I would trace the tangles with my eyes and it was an act of meditation.
This memory comes out of nowhere as I now trace the twists of the road on my bike. Or rather, it is the bike that traces them. I merely hang on and take it all in, savoring the experience. The bike leans dramatically left, then right, then left, then ...who knows. And I relax and lose myself in the meditative feel of it, my hands keeping clear of the brakes. I can't tell you how I finally learned to corner. It just happened one day. It emerged from a tangle of experiences, memories, emotions.
Bareback bronc riding, my one photo of the team roping, and barrel racing.
1928 and 1934
1936 and 1937
1941 and 1942
1943 – fifteen years old – yes, 15!
1944 – sixteen years old
1945 (Junior Prom) and 1946
this wild aster came up right next to my horse trailer which I almost never use. It got no care and only watered when it rained which wasn't at all until recently. But it grew, and bloomed even with out any water. Wish all flowers were this tough.
Lassen Peak from the west side of Lake Manzanita on the afternoon of my arrival.
A closer view of Lassen Peak from the west side of Lake Manzanita.
On the morning of my second day at Lassen, a prescribed burn was being done by the Park Service on the northwest side of Lake Manzanita. The wind carried the smoke away from the campground area but the acrid smell of the burning brush permeated the air.
I stopped at the visitors center, which was engulfed in smoke as it was in the direct path of the wind though a safe distance from the burn area, to get a park brochure and some information (it was closed when I arrived the night before). Even though the road through the park was not open, if you wanted to do some driving, you could access all four corners of the park. There were campgrounds on the south side so I could have gone that way and spent the night on that end of the park but it was in the opposite direction I was headed and would have added several more hours onto an already long trip. Instead, I relaxed around the campground and took a few short walks.
